Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)(48)

Lo’s narrowed gaze pierces Ryke, and both speak through their hard features. Lo is egging Ryke to say the worst things to him—to bring up his addiction. But Ryke is not willing to go there.

“Look,” Ryke says, “the guys on the team aren’t going to tell me if they despise my half-brother who just spent three months in rehab.”

Oh. He has a point.

“Should I put him on the list?” Connor asks, scrolling through his electronic tablet. Sadie tries to sit on it, not liking his attention divided, but he moves the tablet to the armrest and she curls back onto his lap.

Lo pries his gaze from Ryke. “Yeah, sure.” I think he wants someone to blame him again for that mistake—to yell and make him feel that pain, as though he deserves the assault. His father would do just that. But Lo needs to realize that’s not the right way to deal with things. He shouldn’t be punished every day for something that happened months ago. No one died. No one got hurt.

“Let’s start with the people who have the biggest grudge against both of you and go from there,” Connor advises.

Lo is staring at the floor again, his mind wandering in a thousand different places. I’m the one who poured over the yearbook, so I know better than him at this point.

“Aaron Wells,” I start out. Both Ryke and Lo stiffen. They did something to Aaron, clearly, but I try not to think about it. “And maybe Mason Nix…” After the parking lot fiasco, I think there’s a lot more resentment there than we realized.

“I have to give my PI motives to put with the names. So you’re going to have to give me some details.”

Lo sighs heavily. And then he turns to me, his hand rising on my thigh. It’s a little distracting, and I can tell the movement is a subconscious reflex. He doesn’t realize how fixated I am on the way his fingers press into my jeans, only a moment’s breath from the spot between my legs.

“You want to tell the stories?” Lo asks me. “I can if you’re not up to it.” But by his sharp jaw, I can tell he wants to share about as much as I do.

“How about equal opportunity,” I say. “I call Wells.”

Lo has lost a little color in his cheeks. He nods again, and now I regret my choice.

“Never mind, I can talk about Mason—”

“No you take Wells.”

I pause. “Okay,” I say in a small voice. I feel bad. Like I could ooze into the couch and not come back out.

“Aaron Wells,” Connor says, his eyes lighting up in recognition of the name. “He attended the Fizzle event in January?”

“Yep,” I say. Without Lo to accompany me, my mother called Aaron Wells to be my escort (not the prostitute kind). She didn’t know that he hated Lo or that he was hell-bent on making my time at the party miserable.

Lo turns to stone by my side, no longer huggable. He’s upset that he wasn’t there for me, but I would never want him to leave rehab on my account.

I begin the story as best I can.

Aaron Wells. Tall, brown-haired (almost blond), blue-eyed god of the Dalton Academy lacrosse team. He bled blue and shit gold. Even in ninth grade, he was held in high-esteem, a natural athlete that would grace our school with its first Lacrosse State Championship. Guys wanted to be him and girls wanted to f*ck him. But Lo was the one guy who didn’t care about being swathed in Aaron’s circle of popularity.

In ninth grade, Lo and I denied our problems to ourselves and each other. Even after we had sex together for the first time, we just pretended it never happened. We were fourteen—na?ve and lost and trying to make ourselves feel better.

I remember the day after really well. I stuffed my books into my locker, and Lo’s nearness caused my chest to tighten. That part was normal. He would wait for me with a strong arm against the dark blue locker, loosening the collar of his tie on his white button-down. He hated that prep school uniform, even if he looked sexy in it. He would linger by my side, wanting to walk me to class. He reeked of bourbon, and he wore sunglasses indoors to help with his tender eyes. Back then, before college, he felt more of the effects from a night of binging.

“Did you do that poetry assignment for Lit?” Lo asked.

“What?” My eyes widened. I must have forgotten. Not uncommon. Though, the teachers usually took pity on me. After being graced with Rose’s supreme brain, they thought I was the stupid Calloway girl.

“It’s fine, I have you covered,” Lo said. I narrowed my eyes at him, skeptical. No way. “Roses are red. Violets are blue…” Just great. I’m going to fail. “…and if a jock asks, don’t let him f*ck you.” He finished off the poem as his eyes wandered ahead. A group of lacrosse players passed us, Aaron leading the pack.

“Advice in a poem?” I said with a smile. “You’re outdoing yourself, Loren Hale.” My amusement was short lived though. Aaron detached from his pack and approached us. Lo stiffened and I tried to ignore the guy as he towered over me.

“You must be Loren,” Aaron said. “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard about you.”

“It’s Lo,” he clarified.

Aaron barely blinked and continued talking as if Lo hadn’t uttered a word. “I’m hosting a pre-season bash at my place.”

“That’s cute,” Lo said with a wry smile, “not many people throw parties to celebrate spring.”